I hurt, and I couldn’t think of a way to make the pain go away.
My pager buzzed.
Of course I thought, Midori.
But I knew it wasn’t her. She didn’t have the number. Even if she did, she wasn’t going to use it.
I looked at the display, but didn’t recognize the caller.
I found a pay phone and dialed the number. It rang once, then a woman answered in English. She said, “Hey.”
It was Naomi.
“Hey,” I said. “I almost forgot I’d given you this number.”
“You don’t mind my using it, I hope.”
“Not at all. Just a little surprised.” I was surprised. My alertness had bumped up a notch.
There was a pause. “Well, things were slow tonight at the club and I got off a little early. I wondered if you might want to come by.”
It was hard to imagine a slow night at Damask Rose, but maybe it was true. Even so, I would have expected her to want to go someplace first-a late dinner, a drink. Not just a standard tryst at her apartment. My alertness edged up further.
“Sure,” I said. “If you’re not too tired.”
“Not at all. Would love to see you.”
That was odd. She’d pronounced “would” like something halfway to “we’d.” The blurring was contrary to her usual Portuguese accent. A message? A warning?
I looked at my watch. It was almost one thirty. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“I can’t wait.”
I heard her click off.
Something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what.
There was the oddity of her having contacted me. And the story about having come home early, although I suppose the latter might adequately explain the former. Her tone seemed pretty normal. But there was that peculiarly pronounced word.
The question was, what would I do if I knew it was a setup? Not what I would do if I suspected, but if I knew.
I went to another pay phone and called Tatsu. I got his voice mail. I tried again. No dice. He must have been on a stakeout or something.
Well, he does have a day job, I thought. But shit.
The safe thing, the smart thing, would have been to stay away until I could go in with backup. But there might be an opportunity here, and I didn’t want to let it slip.
I took a cab to the edge of Azabu Juban. I knew the security layout outside Naomi’s apartment well, of course, having reconnoitered and exploited it myself the night I had waited for her in the rain. The building on that perpendicular side street, with the awning and the plastic garbage bins, was a perfect spot. If someone were waiting for me, he’d wait there. Just like I had waited for her.
I was making my way to the end of the street that led to the back of the building when I heard the buzz of a two-cycle motorbike coming toward me. It was a pizza delivery scooter with a portable warmer strapped to the back and a sign advertising the shop that had dispatched it. I watched carefully to confirm that it was nothing other than what it seemed. Yeah, just a young guy trying to make a few extra yen with a late night job. I could smell the pizza from inside the warmer.
I had an idea.
I flagged him down. He pulled up next to me.
“Can you do me a favor?” I asked him in Japanese. “For ten thousand yen.”
His eyes widened a bit. “Sure,” he said. “What is it?”
“There’s a building at the end of this street, on the right as you approach it from this direction. It’s got an awning and a bunch of garbage containers stacked up along its side. I think a friend of mine might be waiting for me there, but I want to surprise him. Can you drive past it from the other direction, take a good look as you go by, and tell me if you see anyone there?”
His eyes widened more. “For ten thousand yen? Yeah, I can do that.”
I pulled out my wallet and took out a five-thousand-yen note. “Half now, half when you get back,” I said.
He took the money and buzzed off. Three minutes later he was back.
“He’s there,” he said. “Right where you told me.”
“Thanks,” I said, nodding. “That was a lifesaver.” I gave him the other five thousand yen. He looked at it, his expression momentarily unbelieving. Then he broke into an enormous sunny grin.
“Thanks!” he said. “This is great! Anything else you need?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Not tonight.”
He looked a little wistful, then smiled again as though he knew he’d been hoping for too much. “Okay, thanks again,” he said. He gunned the engine and drove away.
I untaped the baton and palmed it in my right hand. I took out Yukiko’s pepper spray and held it in my left. I moved with the furtiveness I had learned in long-range recon patrols in Vietnam, hugging the buildings I passed, checking each corner, each hot spot, confirming it was clear before advancing farther.
It took me almost a half-hour to cover the hundred meters to the ambush site. When I was three meters away, the cover provided by the garbage bins had thinned too much for me to go any farther. I hunkered low, waiting.
Five minutes went by. I heard the strike of a match, then saw a cloud of blue smoke waft out from just beyond a stack of containers. Whoever was waiting there wasn’t Murakami. Murakami wouldn’t have done something so stupid.
I eased the pepper spray back into a pocket and slowly extended the baton to its full length, tugging at the end to ensure that the components were locked in position, gripping it in my right hand. I watched the smoke rising from in front of me and timed the inhalations and exhalations. I waited until I knew he was inhaling, when his attention would be somewhat distracted by the pleasure of sucking in all that tasty nicotine. In, out. In, out. In…
I leaped out from where I was crouching and shot forward, the baton arm curled past my neck as though I was trying to scratch my opposite shoulder, my free hand up, defending my face and head. I covered the distance in an instant and saw the man as soon as I cleared the edge of the garbage containers just behind him. It was one of Murakami’s bodyguards, wearing a black waist-length leather jacket, with shades and a wool watch cap for light disguise. He’d heard the sudden sound of my approach and was in the midst of turning his head toward me when I burst into his position.
His mouth started to drop open, the cigarette dangling uselessly from his lips. His right hand went for one of the coat pockets. I saw everything slowly, clearly.
I stepped in with my right foot and whipped the baton into the side of his face. His head ricocheted left from the force of the blow. The shades flew off. The cigarette shot out of his mouth, tumbling like a spent rifle cartridge, followed by an explosion of teeth and blood. He staggered back into the building and started to slide down the wall. I stepped in close and brought the butt end of the baton up under his chin, arresting his descent.
“Where’s Murakami?” I asked.
He coughed up a mass of blood and dental matter.
I patted him down while he gagged and tried to collect himself. I found a Kershaw knife like Murakami’s in his coat and a cell phone in a belt clip. I pocketed both.
I pressed hard with the baton. “Where is he?” I asked again.
He coughed and spat. “Naka da,” he said, the words deformed by his injuries. Inside.
“Where’s your other man?”
He groaned and tried to reach for his face. I shoved the baton up into his neck. He grimaced and lowered his arms.
“Where’s your other man?” I asked again.
He sucked and wheezed. “Omote da.” In front.
Made sense. That’s the coverage I would have used.
I brought the baton down and jabbed its tip into his solar plexus. He doubled over with a grunt. I stepped behind him, brought the baton across his windpipe, and jammed a knee into his spine. I arched back, pulling him backward with the baton and pushing forward with my knee. His hands flew to the steel to relieve the pressure but it was already too late. His larynx was crushed. He struggled silently for another half-minute and then sagged back into me.